


The Dark Behind Other People's Eyes

by alabasterclouds



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Past Abuse, Psychological Trauma, internalized shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:52:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alabasterclouds/pseuds/alabasterclouds
Summary: When Jake stops coming into work, Amy becomes concerned and goes to Captain Holt. Jake refuses to speak to either of them, until Holt is able to break through Jake's silence and discover what is really bothering him.Notes: This is my first time participating in the hurt/comfort exchange and I'm so excited to write a fic where Jake is finally facing the psychological issues he has from having a crappy childhood and a number of traumatic experiences from being a cop. I hope you enjoy it! <3





	The Dark Behind Other People's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialskiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/gifts).



Ray Holt was tired. 

It had been a week. Three murders, two kidnappings, and one hostage situation in which he'd had half the team out doing negotiation, and it wasn't even Friday yet. On top of that, Jake Peralta hadn't been to work in three days, and things were starting to get strange in the bullpen. Jake was almost never sick, and even when he was, had to be encouraged to go home instead of infecting the entire precinct with whatever plague he had. The man didn't know how to stop, and the fact that he was finally taking time for himself was not only strange, it was uncharacteristic.

And Amy was saying nothing about it, which was even stranger.

Ray pushed his glasses up on his nose and sighed. Well, he had other things to think about, and when Peralta was ready, he'd be back in the saddle, he was sure. It _was_ nice not to have to encourage him to actually take some time off. And things were a bit quieter without his antics . . . but then, Holt found himself kind of missing those, too.

It would be good when Jake finally did return to work.

He was engrossed in some case reports when he heard a sharp rap on his office door a few moments later. "Come in," he said absentmindedly, flipping a page in one of Santiago's writeups. The woman's attention to detail was extraordinary. It was like reading a novel, he thought, crossing his legs and looking up as Santiago herself walked hesitantly in.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Santiago?" Holt placed her report face down on his desk and turned his full attention to her. She was dressed in her customary uniform, but her hair was very slightly out of place, her tie slightly crooked and her "99" pins askew. The effect was rather startling, especially as Amy was rather attached to looking perfect at all times. Holt actually appreciated the example she set for the other members of the precinct.

Today, though, she was wringing her hands slightly, looking nervous. He watched as she spun her wedding ring on her finger, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Well, Santiago?" Holt didn't mean to sound so sharp; it was simply the way he spoke, but Amy jumped in response, anyway. She finally looked at him, her mouth twisting a bit in nervousness, or maybe anxiety? It was hard to tell with Amy. She was nearly always anxious, and while she'd calmed down in later years, she still had an undercurrent of nervousness that was slightly off-putting.

"Sorry, sir." She sat down, crossing her legs carefully, and then cleared her throat. "Um, well, I wanted to chat with you about Jake, actually."

Holt could practically feel his ears pricking up. He leaned forward, his entire attention on Amy, now. "Yes?"

"Well . . . sir, he's not doing very well. And he asked me not to say anything, but I'm not sure he's in any shape to return to work, yet, and . . . " She trailed off, looking down again, but not before Holt caught the glitter of tears in her huge dark eyes. "I can't do anything to help him," she whispered. "He doesn't want to talk to me about what's bothering him."

Holt listened, nodding slowly. "I see. And how, Santiago, do you think that I'll be able to get what's bothering out of him if you can't? You're his wife, after all."

Amy just shook her slightly tousled head, the corners of her mouth turning down and trembling. "I don't know, Captain. But he's not my husband like this. I don't know who he is."

Holt drummed his fingers on his desk, lost in thought. "All right. Are you suggesting I come to your home and speak with him?"

"Would you?"

"I will if it's something you think would help. Jake's one of my best detectives. I can't have him out of commission, and if he requires help of a psychological sort, then he needs to access it himself. But I could speak to him about it."

For the first time, Amy's mouth quirked in a ghost of a smile. "I'm not sure Jake would go for therapy, sir," she said dryly, and Holt felt his own mouth quirking in amusement.

"Perhaps not, but I will speak with him." He stood up and pulled on his coat. "Tell your team you'll be out for a few hours. We'll take your car."

//~//

Jake had moved in with Amy just before they'd gotten married almost a year before, and Amy's perfect, just-so home now had Jake's slightly disheveled touch all over it. Holt noted three _Die Hard_ posters hung surreptitiously in different corners and a jar of protein powder on the kitchen counter before Amy led him to the closed bedroom door.

"He's not really talking," she said, her voice low. "He hasn't gotten out of bed for a few days . . . I'm sorry in advance."

Holt waved her concerns away. "It's not a big deal, Santiago. I'm sure I've seen worse."

She shrugged, then knocked softly on the door. "Babe? Are you awake?"

There was a shifting and squeaking of the bed frame, then a slight groan from inside the bedroom. "Ames? Why are you home so early?"

"I just thought I'd check on you," she called through the door. "See if you needed anything."

"I'm fine. Go back to work. I'll get up for supper," came Jake's voice, sounding rusty, like he'd been asleep for most of the day.

Amy rolled her eyes. "That's what you said last night."

"Title of your sex tape," came faintly from behind the door, and Holt found himself smiling inwardly. Clearly, Jake's sense of humour was still somewhat intact, which was a bit of a relief.

Amy pushed the door open slightly. "Babe, Captain Holt is here," she ventured, casting a nervous look back at Holt, who nodded encouragingly. "We're all a little worried about you at work."

There was a sudden silence, then, "Why is the captain here, Amy?"

Holt decided it was time to step in. "Because I usually have to beg you to take time off, and here you are, refusing to get out of bed and even speak face-to-face to your wife," he snapped, feeling slightly impatient. "Now, are you going to be polite and let me in, or are we going to stand here on opposite sides of the door all day?"

"Well, I'm not exactly decent, Captain," came the sardonic reply. "But if you can forgive me in my state of undress, I guess I can let you in for a few moments."

Holt rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. It took him a second to adjust to the difference in the light - the blackout curtains over both windows were pulled tightly shut, and the room had a musty, sweaty smell. In the queen-size bed, he could just make out Jake's covered form, blankets pulled up almost to his hairline. There was a heavy sigh as Holt stepped in, and then a, "Well? Happy now?"

Holt nodded at Amy, who nodded back and quietly shut the door behind him. Then he focused on Jake.

Jake was shirtless under the covers, his face pale in the little light escaping around the cracks in the blackout curtains. He looked sleepy, but more than that, he looked _exhausted_ , as if he'd been sick for weeks. And Holt couldn't be sure, but when Jake turned toward him, he thought he saw tearstains on Jake's wan face.

There was an awkward silence as Jake simply stared at Holt. Holt cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "Well? Can I sit down?"

"You can do whatever you want," Jake replied, his voice quiet in the stuffy stillness of the room. "But if you're asking me if I'm going to be a nice host, I'm afraid I'll have to pass on that. I'd rather you really weren't here at all, being totally honest, Captain."

"Well, I'm sure we'd both rather that, but Santiago is concerned, and frankly, so am I."

"I'm not sure why she would be concerned," said Jake, struggling up so that he was leaning back against the pillows. The covers fell down and exposed his bare chest, and he pulled them up around his shoulders again, shivering slightly in the cool bedroom air. "I told her I was fine."

"Odd that she wouldn't believe you, when you clearly look so well," was Holt's rejoinder, and Jake, instead of smiling as he usually would, just sighed, shifting his dark eyes away from the older man.

"Okay. So you don't want to talk," said Holt, trying for a quieter, less strident tone. He sat in the straight-backed chair, after shifting some of Jake's clothes to the dresser beside it, and crossed his legs. "So we won't talk. But I'm not seeing anything to alleviate my concern, so if you don't mind, I think I'll just sit here until you're ready."

"Mature," scoffed Jake under his breath. He shifted his legs in bed, and looked away, into the middle distance. And then his lower lip trembled, and he bit it, hard.

Holt leaned forward. "What's going on, Jake?" He made his voice gentle, quiet. "This is really unlike you. I'm sure you can understand why Amy came to me."

"I'm just . . . not feeling well," said Jake, his voice cracking a little at the end. "That's all. A man can take a sick day once in awhile."

"Once in awhile," agreed Holt. "But once in ten years is definitely a surprising event, I'm sure you'd agree."

"My stomach hurts," said Jake, refusing to look at Holt. He sniffled, then let out a large, exasperated sigh. "It's a flu or something. It's nothing to be worried about."

"I mean, yes, if the last time you had a stomach upset, you hadn't insisted on going on a recon mission while vomiting every five minutes into a plastic bag," replied Holt, his voice still soft. "But I can understand wanting some time off if you're not feeling well."

"Well, if you can understand it, then why did you listen to Amy? And also, why did she even bother to go to you?" Jake's voice was starting to rise in exasperation, and Holt moved his chair closer to the bed. "I just am tired, okay? I just needed some rest, because we've been working really hard, and I just wanted a few days off to sleep. That's all, it's nothing, okay?" 

Jake's voice was now loud and belligerent, but as Holt was about to open his mouth, he saw Jake wipe the corner of his eyes harshly with the edge of the sheet. "And I don't think it's all that strange to just need a nap once in awhile. Or to need some time by myself. Have you ever thought that we work a stressful job, Captain? That sometimes we need some time off that isn't always _with_ someone else, always asking what's wrong, if you're okay? Maybe I'm not okay! Maybe I'm not, but it's not anyone's business but mine!"

And then Jake's voice broke, and he started to cry, burying his face into the huddle of blankets surrounding him. "I'm not okay, and it _sucks_ ," he sobbed.

And Holt, watching him, was at a loss for words.

//~//

Jake was angry. 

How dare Amy go to Captain Holt with this? So he had a few depressive episodes every once in awhile. Anyone would, in their line of work. Amy tended to have long panic attacks ending with crying jags. No one ever thought she needed the captain to speak to _her_ about it. They saw murders, they saw dead kids and horrible mutilations and kidnapping. Anyone would be a little fucked up.

And now he could feel Holt's warm weight beside him; Holt had moved from the chair to the bed, it seemed. And Jake felt Holt's hand over his, separated by a thick pad of covers, that floral pattern Amy had loved from Nordstrom's and had asked for on their wedding registry. Jake wiggled his hand under Holt's, and Holt gripped it, warm and strong.

"Oh, Jake. I know. I know you're not okay." Holt's voice was soft. "You're not okay. I know how that feels."

"No one knows how it feels," Jake whimpered, feeling like a baby. He rubbed the sheet roughly over his eyes and face again, and then sniffled. He was cold, he realized, and he started to shiver. "No one needs to know how it feels."

Holt was silent for a moment, but then he moved so that he was sitting beside Jake on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Jake could feel his warm, solid presence beside him, and despite himself, he felt a little safer. He allowed himself to lean slightly against Holt, feeling a little warmer.

"When I was a rookie, I was called out to a case in Greenwich Village. A double homicide - two men found in a bathhouse. Their throats had been slit." Holt's voice was calm, but Jake heard a slight grind in it, a deep, aching pain. "They had been found in one of the pools. Arms entwined. Clinging to each other, even as they were murdered there in cold blood."

Jake listened, but he sneaked an arm out over the covers and put one of his cold hands over Holt's warm one. Holt squeezed his hand reassuringly, and Jake found himself smiling, just a little bit.

"No one knew I was gay, of course. I didn't come out for another decade after that. But I found myself never really able to shake that case . . . I'd close my eyes, and see their hands, stiff and desperate, clinging tightly to each other. Their eyes weren't closed, and they gazed into each other's faces. That look of desperation. Knowing that they would do anything for each other, even in horrific death."

Holt cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly, as if to shake off the memories. "I resisted help for a long time. I did whatever I could to avoid being called to the Village again, for years. I became overprotective of my partners . . . almost overbearing. I just couldn't help but see their faces on top of the victims' faces. I was paranoid, thinking every car following me, every man yelling at me . . . I thought they wanted to kill me."

Jake looked down at the rise of his knees under the covers. "Wow."

"Yes. It wasn't a tenable situation, Jake." Holt's serious dark eyes found Jake's, and he squeezed his hand again. "Trauma is very rarely a tenable situation, though it is a valid situation, and the feelings that accompany it are valid, too."

Jake's eyes blurred, and he sniffled, a big sniff, wiping his eyes again. "Mine isn't even as bad as yours."

"Who said it was a competition?"

"It doesn't have to be, it has to do with how well you can handle it. You know that, and I know that." Jake's voice was rough and angry, and Holt sighed, a long, gusty sigh. It was almost if the tension in the room lessened at that very moment, and Jake suddenly found himself relaxing a little bit, despite Holt's exasperation.

"To coin a term, Peralta, that's bullshit. And you know it." Holt didn't exactly snap; but his voice was hard, and Jake looked away. There was silence for a few moments. Then Jake, looking at his hand entwined with Holt's, began to speak.

"It was a kid. Ran away from home. Apparently Mom and Step-dad had been out on a bender or something; she hadn't seen them in a few days. The neighbour called. They'd seen her eating out of the trash."

Holt nodded, but said nothing else. Jake cleared his throat, blinking furiously, and then continued.

"I called the emergency contact number the school had for her - her biological dad, lives in Manhattan. He answered, but he had no idea why he was even listed as the contact. He hadn't had contact with the kid in three years, and what was more, he had no interest in any contact. Ever."

Jake felt his voice roughen as a lump the size of a peanut butter sandwich grew in his throat. "So we sent her to foster care. And the way she asked me, 'Isn't Daddy going to come and get me? Doesn't he know that I'm here?' . . ." Jake trailed off, his throat closing. "I just . . . I knew how she felt, you know? I was always sitting there, waiting for him to come home. Waiting for him to notice me at all."

Jake felt hot tears spill down his cheeks. "And I just thought, if this is going to fuck me up this much, that I can't even do my job . . . then why even bother?" He let out a sob, then another. "And I'm sorry, Captain, because I didn't want to take it out on you . . . or on Amy. I just . . . I needed to make it go away. For awhile. Forever."

At that, Holt spread his arms wide, and Jake crawled into them, pushing away unwelcome thoughts of being a baby or not needing to take comfort from a grown man, let alone his own boss. But Holt just held him against his warm, solid chest, bowing his head into Jake's unwashed hair, rubbing his back and murmuring to him comfortingly. And Jake realized . . . it didn't feel wrong at all. It felt nice.

It felt like someone cared about him.

He curled up in Holt's arms and sighed, a long shaky sigh. And then he smiled a little through his tears.

"Thanks," was all he could manage.

Holt just sighed. "It's what we do. We have each other's back, Jake."

And Jake knew that in the Nine-Nine, they did. They always did.

//~//

Two days later, Jake made his way back to the office. His face was still pale, and he had visibly lost weight, but he was faintly smiling and back to his old wisecracking self. Holt, from his vantage point just inside his office, hid a smile as he watched Boyle clap Jake enthusiastically on the back. Things seemed to be back to normal.

Holt double-checked his sent email. After getting back to the office and reassuring Amy that all was well, he had found the number and email of their Employee Psychology Program, which offered employer-covered therapy to any police officer who was in need of it, for any reason. Holt had explained to Jake that it was due to this program that he was able to finally get past his own trauma and return to work without the images of the dead gay men bothering him day after day.

Jake had been skeptical, but he'd agreed to try it. Holt had left it with him. Therapy was a choice each officer had to make. It wasn't up to anyone else but them to make it.

Mid-morning, there was a knock at his office door. "Yes," he called absently, his voice slightly exasperated. He was in the middle of reviewing a number of crime scene photos, and having his rhythm interrupted was highly annoying.

But his exasperation evaporated when he saw that it was Jake.

"Oh. Peralta. Come in," said Holt, closing the window of photos and focusing on Jake, who still looked a little tired, but much brighter than he had looked a few days ago.

"Captain . . . I just wanted to ask, do you mind if I chat with you about this employee program you sent me? When you have time, of course," he quickly added. "I know you're trying to review the Josten murder."

"What's up, Jake?" said Holt, waving Jake to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "If you have questions, I'm sure we can set up a meeting with HR."

"No . . . I was wondering . . . well, I made an appointment. For tomorrow afternoon. And I just . . . wondered, would you come with me? For the first time?" Jake looked down at his hands, twisted and squeezing in his lap. "I know it's not exactly kosher, but I just . . ." He trailed off, then raised his pleading dark eyes to Holt. "I just . . ."

"Yes. I can clear my schedule for then." Holt made a few notes in an email to send to Gina, then closed the window and looked at Jake.

"I would be happy to come with you, Peralta." He smiled a little at Jake. "I told you I had your back." 

And for the first time in days, Jake smiled for real.


End file.
